12/01/2020
Floyd
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Yuri celebrates the Siberian summer
Yuri looked at his brown woolen sweater. He seemed to be lost in it. Overnight it had become summer, Yuri had staggered out of his Siberian log cabin, soulfully foaming with enthusiasm, and had rolled like a horse in the thawing permafrost between the trees, before he had grunted his summer cry, pulled the tattered piece of rope over his skull and flung it into the dirt in front of his shed. Finally he picked up the sweater and buried his face in the old wool.
There was still a remnant of camphor from the winter, under glaringly bright traces of animals, which probably now melted with the ground and dominated the first breath. Then the forest in the wool was nothing but brown rutting, as if hundreds of deer shot out of their huge glands all over the wilderness as if there was no tomorrow. Resinous-citric needles were rubbed underneath and the ethereal glow of the distant tar pits.
The old Russian dived deeper and deeper into the loud memory of the clammy sweater. There soapy oak moss grew in all the animal musk and dark flowers dawned under the musty black leaves. Yuri thought of the champaka incense sticks in the log cabin, last winter, against the stench. Now that the wool had become a mass of moss, champaka, wood and musk, and wafted around him like a cloud of brown liquor, Yuriy realized that the trees were drunk, leaning in all directions. Chert poberi, comrades! Where will it end?!
Yuri went back to his hut. In the evening everything there was red amber, the incense sticks still hanging in the wood and of course the liqueur he was wearing. Only now the sun of Siberia shone more quietly and the days of summer were long.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
There was still a remnant of camphor from the winter, under glaringly bright traces of animals, which probably now melted with the ground and dominated the first breath. Then the forest in the wool was nothing but brown rutting, as if hundreds of deer shot out of their huge glands all over the wilderness as if there was no tomorrow. Resinous-citric needles were rubbed underneath and the ethereal glow of the distant tar pits.
The old Russian dived deeper and deeper into the loud memory of the clammy sweater. There soapy oak moss grew in all the animal musk and dark flowers dawned under the musty black leaves. Yuri thought of the champaka incense sticks in the log cabin, last winter, against the stench. Now that the wool had become a mass of moss, champaka, wood and musk, and wafted around him like a cloud of brown liquor, Yuriy realized that the trees were drunk, leaning in all directions. Chert poberi, comrades! Where will it end?!
Yuri went back to his hut. In the evening everything there was red amber, the incense sticks still hanging in the wood and of course the liqueur he was wearing. Only now the sun of Siberia shone more quietly and the days of summer were long.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
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